


Head All Tangled Up

by intocooperstown



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Gerard Way wears a skirt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Strangers to Lovers, a sprinkle of existentialism, it's not important to the plot but it's important to me, stranger than fiction AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24530818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intocooperstown/pseuds/intocooperstown
Summary: “Okay, what the fuck?” Patrick asks aloud. He glances around for the source of the voice, and a wave of embarrassment crashes over him when he sees a mother scowling at him and covering her child’s ears. Patrick promptly turns away from her and tries to will invisibility on himself. He pulls out his earbuds and cues up his music, hoping to drown out the voice.It doesn’t work.Patrick Stump is hearing voices, and Pete Wentz can’t figure out how to finish his novel about a pretty IRS agent that’s doomed to die.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 22
Kudos: 53
Collections: Lights! Camera! Peterick!





	Head All Tangled Up

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my last-minute entry to Lights, Camera, Peterick! As said in the tags, the movie this is based off of is called Stranger than Fiction, one of my absolute favorites. I've never tried writing anything like this before, but I'm not unhappy with the outcome in the slightest. This unbeta'd, so any inconsistencies and/or errors are mine. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Title is from David Bowie's "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide."

_This is the story of a man named Patrick Stump._

_Patrick Stump is a man in his mid-twenties, with strawberry blond hair that can look dirty blond in certain lighting. This isn’t a well-known fact, however, because he prefers to cover his head with various hats, and he isn’t intimate enough with anyone that they’ve seen him without one. The only people that see him without his hat are his coworkers, and everyone knows that fluorescent lights are not flattering for anyone. From the time he grabs his keys, to the time he gets to work, his head is covered by a hat._

_No one else sees Patrick without a hat because, obviously, he lives alone. He had a roommate in college, a girl around his age who dyed her hair in their sink and always forgot to clean it up, but she had moved out soon after she received her diploma. Patrick has never sought out another roommate, nor has he attempted to find another kind of partner to share his apartment._

_Every day, Patrick wakes up at six a.m. and takes a shower. He dresses himself in stylish, but plain, button-ups and professional slacks and slips on a pair of well-loved dress shoes. He eats a bowl of cereal on his couch and watches the news, before realizing he’s running five minutes late and scurrying out the door._

_Patrick waits on the platform of the El for only ten minutes on average before his train pulls up and he steps on. He prefers to stand, because he knows when he gets to work that he’ll have to sit for the rest of his day. He keeps his headphones in during his commute, knowing that listening to music at the volume he prefers is typically frowned upon._

_Patrick works from nine a.m. to five p.m., Monday through Friday, in the office of the Internal Revenue Service in Chicago. Most days he is confined in his cubicle, checking and double-checking numbers, but occasionally he gets the exciting luxury of auditing someone. On weekends he visits his parents, his siblings, and his nieces and nephews, who he babysits every once in a while; Patrick Stump is very good with kids._

_Patrick goes straight home after work. He reads, makes a dinner for one, and kills hours watching and re-watching classic movies from the eighties. He goes to bed alone and pretends that it never, ever bothers him that the sheets don’t get very warm with just him between them._

_The cycle repeats itself, and Patrick makes no moves to break it. He is comfortable, lulled into a sense of security by the idea of such a stable existence._

_Unfortunately for Patrick, his routine is only so protective._

_One upcoming week will change Patrick’s life irreversibly. It will begin with a simple piece of information and end with a complete shift in Patrick’s place in the world. By the final remarks of his story, Patrick Stump will be unrecognizable._

~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Patrick’s week begins the way it always does: the run-of-the-mill Monday morning struggle to get out of bed. His bed is warm, and therefore much more appealing than the chill of his apartment beyond the covers, but this fact does not stop his alarm from blaring. Patrick groans, rolls over to shut off his alarm, and continues to lay in bed. Five minutes later, another identical alarm blares, because Patrick knows he can’t miss work. Patrick heroically drags himself out of bed._

_Patrick doesn’t understand people who can take cold showers. People at his workplace go on health kicks all the time and say cold showers are better for the body, and give you an extra kick in the morning. Patrick thinks these people must be masochists. Patrick turns on the hot water and sleepily waits for it to heat up. Patrick tests the water twice before shedding his pajamas, a threadbare t-shirt commemorating his graduating class and a pair of Batman pants._

_Patrick slips into the shower, his pale skin turning pink from the sudden warmth. The onslaught of water coaxes Patrick into the land of consciousness at last. Patrick lathers his hair with shampoo, cleaning the soft locks thoroughly. He makes the mistake of opening his eyes, and he can’t help but shout—_

“Fuck!” Patrick shuts his eyes again and fumbles for his towel. “Shit.” His eyes don’t stop burning as he dabs away the soapy water. He blinks a few times, waiting for the feeling to subside. 

Patrick looks around. The only thing he can hear now is the water. _Maybe I imagined it_ , he thinks. He rinses his hair, making sure to keep his eyes shut this time and continues his shower without incident. 

_Patrick checks the time on his phone; he hasn’t reached the point of lateness quite yet. Still, his hands work faster, nimble fingers buttoning his shirt quicker._

“Hello?” Patrick calls out to his apartment. He stands in the doorway of his bathroom, peering out. “Is someone there?” He’s only met with silence, but he glances in the direction of his bed and thinks of the metal bat stashed underneath in case of emergencies. 

Patrick shakes his head and goes back to getting ready. He eats his breakfast in peace, and he chalks the voice up to some new form of sleep paralysis where you aren’t paralyzed and aren’t asleep, and he goes about his morning. He makes it all the way to a half-empty El car when the voice starts up again. 

_The unfinished sunrise illuminates the carriage in golden light, giving even the grossest corners of the train a soft appearance. Were Patrick Stump not wearing a hat, his hair would shine in the light. The skin of his hands and cheeks, however, glowed in the dying sunrise, lending him a youthful, ethereal look._

“Okay, what the fuck?” Patrick asks aloud. He glances around for the source of the voice, and a wave of embarrassment crashes over him when he sees a mother scowling at him and covering her child’s ears. Patrick promptly turns away from her and tries to will invisibility on himself. He pulls out his earbuds and cues up his music, hoping to drown out the voice. 

It doesn’t work. 

The voice follows Patrick all the way to his cubicle. He’s already not great at math, and his increased lack of focus only makes things worse. He takes refuge by hiding away to file papers after lunch, but the voice follows him there, too. He resorts to a new form of protest: doing nothing. He’s aware of the cameras posted in every corner of the building, and he can only imagine what the security officer on duty must think, but the voice stops talking when Patrick stops moving. Getting reprimanded for indolence is a small price to pay for sanity. 

“Dude.” Patrick is startled out of his trance by his approaching coworker. Joe has a giant grin on his face, long curls pulled back in a massive pony tail. “Someone just tried to claim their doomsday bunker as ‘preventative medicine.’” 

Joe stops advancing when he reaches the drawer Patrick has left open, waiting for him to respond. Normally, Patrick would say something sarcastic and witty, something to make Joe burst into laughter and brighten up their boring day. Then he would talk about an equally insane case that landed on his desk recently, and the cycle would continue. 

“I’m being followed,” Patrick blurts instead. 

Joe’s smile falls from his face. “By like, a stalker?” He lowers his voice and leans forward a bit. “Listen, if you need to get someone off you tail, I know a guy from college—”

“By a voice,” Patrick continues. “I’m being followed by a man’s voice.” Joe straightens up and narrows his eyes. “Just- listen to this,” Patrick says. He starts filing again. 

_The scrape of the manila folders reminds Patrick of the beaches he used to visit as a child, and of his more frequent visits to the shores of Lake Michigan. He thinks of the one time he skinny dipped as a teenager, reveling the success of his last high school band concert in solitude, and can almost feel the chill of the water in his fingers and across his chest. He thinks of how clear the cold had made his head; he thinks he could use some of that clarity now._

Patrick glances up at Joe. Joe stares at him like he grew a third head, then shrugs. “You didn’t hear that?” Patrick asks. 

“No,” Joe says slowly. 

“The weird thing is, sometimes I do think about how cold the water was that night,” Patrick murmurs, looking away from Joe. 

“Patrick, when was the last time you took a sick day? Or a vacation?” 

Patrick sighs. “Too long ago.” 

The sound of heels clicking against the floor make the two pause their conversation. A woman smiles politely, hands Joe two case files, says “New audits,” then turns and walks off. Joe glances at the files. One is thin, and the other is an inch or two thick. 

“We got a baker and a security trader.” Joe looks at Patrick. Patrick stares back, but he feels far away. “You take the baker,” Joe says softly. He hands Patrick the thinner file. “And consider taking a break, okay? Maybe pick up drumming again.” With that, he claps Patrick on the shoulder and walks off. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mr. Hurley is very polite, Patrick notes. He doesn’t seem to want any real trouble, despite the sarcastic comments and rueful smiles. Patrick doesn’t blame him; no one wants to be audited. 

“Surely you knew this was coming,” Patrick says, not impolitely. He fiddles with the handle of his briefcase. “You stole from the government.” 

Mr. Hurley continues mixing what looks like brownie batter. It smells heavenly, and Patrick considers sticking around to buy one after they come out of the oven. “‘Stole’ is a strong word, Mr. Stump. Do I look like someone capable of a running a heist?” 

_No,_ Patrick thinks, _but I’ve seen less intimidating people do worse._ Andy Hurley does not look like the type of person Patrick would imagine running a vegan bakery and coffee shop. Then again, he can’t figure out what else he was expecting. Maybe someone with less muscle? 

“You didn’t pay all of your taxes. In the eyes of the government, that’s stealing.” Another customer comes in, and Patrick shuffles to the side so Mr. Hurley can assist them. The bakery isn’t too crowded, but there’s been a steady stream of people coming in to pick up a few pastries for a midday snack just since Patrick arrived. Not many people are sitting down to eat, and the ones who are look like college students taking study breaks. One group of girls in the corner are having an intellectual discussion concerning philosophy and human rights; Patrick has never heard of any of the people they’re talking about, but some guy named Marcus Aurelius is apparently a dick. 

Mr. Hurley turns back to Patrick after the customer leaves. He leans forward on the counter Patrick is standing by and gives Patrick an indulgent smile. “Mr. Stump, do you know where your taxes go?” 

Patrick blinks. “Yes.” 

“So you know how much of your tax money goes to corporate bailouts and the absurdly massive military, despite the amount of people living on the streets and struggling to feed their kids?”

Patrick nods. 

Mr. Hurley lowers his voice. “And it doesn’t make your blood boil?”

It does. “Mr. Hurley, I have a job to do,” Patrick squeaks out. 

“Don’t we all.” With that, Mr. Hurley turns back to his cookie batter and begins scooping globs of dough onto a pan. 

_Patrick isn’t sure what to think of Mr. Hurley._

“Oh god, not now,” Patrick whispers, shutting his eyes and hoping he would wake up to find this was all a dream. 

_After all, if you’re going to be a tax evader, the best reason to do it would be to stick it to a corrupt government system. He’s perfectly friendly, and the fact that he knows his way around a batch of vegan sugar cookies is more than a little endearing. That being said, Patrick has a job to do._

Patrick thinks, _Damn right. Now get out of my head._

_Patrick’s focus is already compromised, however, and he can’t help but notice that Mr. Hurley is just his type._

“Why don’t I come back next Tuesday?” Patrick asks loudly. Mr. Hurley startles. “You’re obviously busy at the moment, and if I come back another day you’ll have time to get your files in order.

Mr. Hurley nods. “Alright. Next Tuesday.” 

Patrick would hold out his hand for Mr. Hurley to shake, but he knows his palms are sweaty, and he really doesn’t want to prompt the voice for anymore narration. He picks up his briefcase and turns, ready to calmly bolt out of the bakery. 

“Mr. Stump?” 

_Fuck._ Patrick turns back around and forces a polite smile. “Yes?” 

Mr. Hurley holds out a flyer. “I hold an open mic night every two weeks. You should come sometime.” 

Patrick frowns, takes the flyer anyway. 

“You seem tense,” Mr. Hurley says with a shrug. “People tend to relax watching other people perform. Or at least feel better about themselves watching stuck-up white guys try to play out of tune guitars.

“Oh.” Patrick glances at the flyer. “Um. I’ll consider it,” he says diplomatically. Mr. Hurley then goes back to his baking, and Patrick takes that as his cue to leave. 

_Patrick leaves the bakery, mildly shaken. If a complete stranger is able to tell he doesn’t feel right, what must his coworkers have seen when he walked into the office that morning?_

Is Patrick going crazy? Maybe. Joe might have the right idea: a long weekend might do him some good. 

_Standing on the street corner, Patrick takes a closer look at the flyer Mr. Hurley had handed him. The stage welcomes poets, singers, songwriters, even dancers. All proceeds go to funding arts programs at local colleges. Patrick doesn’t have better plans that weekend, besides his trips to the suburbs to visit his family. Patrick bites his lip. He folds the paper into a small square and tucks it into his pocket, making a mental note to add it to his calendar._

_The rest of Patrick’s day consists of two scenes: him, working at his desk; him and Joe laughing in the break room. Nothing else happens. He goes home, he eats dinner, the sun sets. Patrick lounges on his couch and watches TV for the rest of the night. The worries of the day melt away as he loses himself in the lives of fictional people, and as he gets ready for bed, he tells himself that today was just an off day, and a good night’s sleep will fix it. If not that, a long weekend with a bottle of good wine definitely will._

_Little does Patrick Stump know, the actions of today have set him on a course that will, unfortunately, result in his death._

_“What?_ ” Patrick yells. 

The sound echoes through his apartment. The voice doesn’t respond. 

“What the fuck did you just say?” 

Silence. 

“No. No, fuck that.” Patrick was sitting on the edge of his bed, scrolling on his phone before bed, but he bolts up now. “Answer me, you piece of shit!” 

Patrick storms his apartment, looking one more time for a source, or some sign that this is a prank. He pauses in his living room and breathes. An idea strikes him. 

Patrick gets in the shower, fully clothed, and turns on the cold water, full-blast. “What do you think about this?” He sticks his face in the shower spray and barely feels a thing. He clenches his fists, waits until the water has soaked through to his underwear. “Got anything to say about this? Any fucking comments?” A second passes. Patrick grabs his shampoo and pours it into his hands, slathers it on his hair. “Fucking answer me!” His voice cracks. Patrick’s back hits the tiled wall of his shower and he slides to the floor, drained. His voice shakes as he whispers, “What the fuck?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first thing Patrick does is try going to a therapist, who diagnoses him with schizophrenia. Patrick would accept the diagnosis, except no one in his family that he knows of has ever had schizophrenia, and he doesn’t think that his case is typical, considering the voice is acting more as a bringer of omens than a bringer of instructions. His next step is to ask the therapist, hypothetically, what he should do if he _is_ the main character of a novel. She tells him, very calmly, “Well, I would go talk to an English professor.” 

Talk to an English professor, Patrick will. 

He contacts Professor Gerard Way online first and sets up an appointment. His schedule this semester is skin tight, since he’s known as one of the best professors at the University of Chicago. Patrick, of course, had never heard of him before, but English wasn’t his favorite subject in school. Professor Way is polite over email, and he gives Patrick a friendly smile when Patrick shows up at his office for their morning appointment. Professor Way rises from his desk chair to shake Patrick’s hand. His dark suit is wrinkle-free, like a shadow, and his nails are painted black. 

“Mr. Stump, have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from him. 

Patrick sits, and Professor Way takes a minute to pull up their emails. The office is like a mini library, filled with classic and modern literature alike, along with a stack of comic books here and there. In Professor Way’s bookshelf is a larger shelf where a TV and CD player sit, screen displaying that a Pink Floyd album is playing on low. There’s not too much color in the room, mostly neutral in the morning light, except for the pictures of Way’s family hanging up behind his desk. 

“So, you say you’ve been hearing someone narrating your life?” Professor Way leans forward, steepling his fingers. 

“Yes,” Patrick says. “It’s a man’s voice, talking about the things I see and do. And he knows some of my thoughts.” 

Professor Way hums. “And you’ve talked to a psychologist about this?” 

“She said it’s schizophrenia, but that can’t be it.” 

“Nervous breakdown, perhaps? I’ve had some students come to me in the middle of thesis writing and tell me Shakespeare himself told them off for misinterpreting his work.” 

Patrick shakes his head. “I’m not nearly stressed enough for that.” 

“How long do you have to live?” Patrick shrugs. “Any idea who would write a book about you?” Patrick shrugs again, sinking back into his seat. “What about genre? Any clues there?” 

“Not erotica,” Patrick offers. 

Professor Way laughs. The smile falls from his face soon after. “Here’s the thing Patrick: I don’t have the slightest clue how to help you, even if you’re not crazy, and I’m not entirely convinced you’re not. No offense.” 

“None taken,” Patrick says sullenly. 

“And I really do have a full schedule this semester, so I don’t have a lot of time to go on a wild goose chase with you. And, again, no offense, you don’t seem like a good protagonist for a novel. You’re an IRS agent with one friend and no hobbies, besides when you played music in high school and college.”

Patrick doesn’t say “none taken” this time. “I just don’t know what to do. I was fine, living my life, when all of a sudden some bastard’s voice is all ‘Little did he know, he’s going to die.’ Even if I am crazy, what kind of sick mind game is that?” 

Professor Way’s eyes widen. “Say that again.”

“What kind of sick mind game is that?” Patrick repeats wearily. 

“No, no. Back up. Was that _exactly_ what the narrator said?” 

Patrick thinks. “More or less.” 

“Little did he know?” Patrick nods. “That’s third person omniscient. The narrator can only say that if they know something you don’t know.” 

“Okay…” Patrick narrows his eyes. 

“Patrick,” Professor Way says. “You can’t know something you don’t know.” Professor Way rubs a hand down his face, then turns back to his computer. “Fuck. Okay, I want you to come back next Friday— no, wait, you could be dead by then. How about Wednesday?” He glances at Patrick. 

“Oh, yeah, Wednesday works.” Holy shit, someone can actually help him. “In the morning again?” 

Professor Way nods. “In the meantime, write down everything the narrator says. His writing style could help clue us in to his identity.” 

“Okay,” Patrick says. “Thank you for your time, Professor.” He holds out his hand. Professor Way takes it without hesitation. 

“Stay alive until our next meeting.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Patrick hadn’t had a true panic attack in a long time, but as he was laying in bed, trying to shut his mind off to sleep and failing miserably, he might be on his way to having one. His chest and throat feel tight, like there’s a block of cement on his sternum, and ninety percent of his brain power is dedicated to keeping his breathing steady. 

Patrick doesn’t want to die. That is definitely _not_ a thing he wants to do. He hasn’t done much with his life, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t want more; Patrick always thought he’d get the chance to get married and have kids and maybe go scuba diving and see some sea life up close and personal. When he thinks about it, he really hasn’t lived that much life at all. Is it his fault for not seizing more days? Should he have spent those hours after work going to bars and meeting people and getting in trouble? 

Patrick sits up in his bed. He takes another deep breath and thinks of his mom. He slips out from under the covers and goes to the kitchen in search of a glass of water. His apartment is eerily still, lacking the warmth Patrick needs at the moment. 

_Patrick Stump is not one for regular existential crises, and so his panic is warranted._

Patrick is too busy drinking to try to pick a fight with the voice. 

_There is one thing that Patrick doesn’t know, however, that must be taken into consideration: he is doing an extraordinary job at this “life” thing.”_

Patrick stops drinking and takes a deep breath. 

_Most people are not as kind as Patrick Stump can be, nor are they as smart. Patrick is an IRS agent, but truly, he could be_ anything. _If he wanted to go back to school and do something else, he could. If he wanted to quit his job and babysit full-time like he occasionally does for his nieces and nephews, he could. Patrick Stump has an incredible skill set; he is in no way limited to what he is doing now. It might take an uncomfortable stirring of the pot for him to realize it, but it’s true._

Patrick can’t believe listening to a stranger’s voice is calming him down— especially when the same voice told him, not twenty-four hours ago, that he is going to die. 

_Patrick Stump is going to be okay. He might have a bad night, or a hundred bad nights, but he will be okay._

Patrick falls asleep with the man’s voice echoing in his head, strangely soothing. It follows him into his dreams, reminding him, _he will be okay._

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pete shouldn’t be surprised when his “brainstorming” time is cut short by a knock on the door of his downtown office. By brainstorming, he means pacing the length of the space over and over, only pausing to stare out the window and change his music. It’s not incredibly productive, which is why, of course, someone at the publisher’s office felt the need to send someone over. He knows that they’re sitting in a stuffy office on even more expensive land, probably on the river, waiting anxiously for an update on his novel that isn’t “Various options for my storyline are being explored.” 

Pete really doesn’t want someone else peeking over his shoulder all the time, but what other choice does he have? It’s been five years since he started writing about Patrick Stump. He sighs, drags himself out of his chair to unlock the door, then calls “It’s open!” as he retreats to the room his desk is in and leans against the wall as casually as he can when someone is invading his creative space. 

The man pauses in the doorway. He’s got fluffy looking brown hair and brown eyes to match. There’s no way he’s over thirty, but he’s playing the experienced part with his dark blazer and sleek briefcase. His face looks dewey in the bright light coming in from the windows. The only thing throwing off the man’s appearance is his scarf; it’s easily the ugliest scarf Pete has ever seen, and he wants one. 

“You’re Ryan Ross?” Pete asks, just to check. “You’re the esteemed editor that’s got everyone in a frenzy?” 

Ryan smiles politely. “That’s me.” 

Pete gives him another once-over. “You’re awfully young to have a such a reputation.” 

Ryan ignores the comment. “So Mr. Wentz,” he begins, taking a seat in front of Pete’s desk and setting his briefcase down beside him. Pete doesn’t move from where he’s leaning against the wall. “How long have you had writer’s block?” 

Pete fights the urge to scoff. “Writers block” is not the right term for what he has, but he doesn’t know how else to explain it. “Is that what the publishers have told you I have?” 

Ryan doesn’t say a word. He stares at Pete, waiting for him to blurt an answer, just like his mom used to at dinner when she knew Pete was hiding something. 

Pete sighs. “I don’t know how to kill Patrick Stump. I’ve got almost the entire novel written, but I don’t know how to end it.” He sits down opposite of Ryan. “Nothing I come up with is good enough for him.” 

“Your novel is a ‘him?’” Ryan asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Pete scowls. “Him meaning Patrick.”

Ryan goes silent again. Pete hates him, just a little. 

“My novels rely on character. This novel would be _nothing_ without Patrick Stump.” 

“Your protagonist,” Ryan clarifies. 

“Yeah. And nothing I think of is a fitting ending for him. I can’t just throw him on train tracks or make him have a heart attack.” 

Ryan hums and nods. “It wouldn’t be a satisfying ending— whatever you do to Patrick Stump, it has to give the story depth.” 

Pete blinks. Maybe he’s not so bad. “Exactly.” 

Ryan pulls his briefcase into his lap and takes out a notepad and pen and starts scribbling. Ryan glances at the pile of papers sitting next to Pete’s typewriter. “Is that it?” he asks. Pete nods. “May I?” 

“Knock yourself out.” 

Ryan picks up the first few pages, but doesn’t take the whole stack. It’s clear he’s just skimming the pages. “Rumor has it you’re having second thoughts about the whole thing.” 

Pete laughs bitterly. “The publishers bugging my office now?” 

“Nope, just reading too far into your emails.” 

Pete watches Ryan flip a page. “I don’t know. The whole thing feels shaky sometimes. I’m never sure if I’ve developed Patrick correctly for the story to flow well, and don’t even get me started on my opening scene.” He slouches into his chair. “Sometimes the whole thing feels like a mess.” 

Ryan puts the pages back on the stack. “Do you want to finish it?” 

It feels like a trap. “Shouldn’t I?” Pete asks in return. “I mean, I’ve made it this far.” The thought of abandoning Patrick Stump after holding on to him for so long makes his stomach turn, but Pete decides not to mention that. 

Ryan smiles. “Well, Mr. Wentz, if you’re that committed, then I guess I have no choice but to help you kill Patrick Stump.” 

“If this is a joke to you, you can leave,” Pete says, a little bit of anger coloring his voice. His work is _not_ to be mocked. Especially not Patrick. 

“It’s not. I’m simply saying that if you want to see a project through, you have to be serious about it. You have to be _passionate_ about it. Am I wrong?” 

Pete tries to glare at him, but his rage quickly drains away because, well, Ryan’s right. 

“Are you passionate about this novel, Mr. Wentz? Are you passionate about Patrick Stump?” 

“Yes,” Pete says immediately. _More than anything._

Ryan smiles warmly. “Good. We won’t have a problem then.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So, he compared you to Ganymede,” Professor Way says while skimming through Patrick’s notes. 

“Is that important?” Patrick asks. Then he adds, “I like your braids, by the way.” 

Professor Way beams. “Thank you, my daughter did them.” Today Professor Way is wearing a black pencil skirt and blazer with a red tie. His nails are still painted black. “No, it’s not super important. It adds to your characterization, and tells us that your author knows his mythology.” 

“Oh.” Patrick nods. “Okay.” He’s sitting stiffly in his seat, back uncomfortably straight. His hands are on his knees, and he feels like he could stare a hole through Professor Way’s desk. 

Professor Way sets Patrick’s notepad down on his desk. “Based on everything I just read, there are a quite a few things we can rule out. We know your story isn’t historical fiction, or paranormal fiction, or erotica. However, there’s still a lot left on the table, especially when we consider your story could be a modern re-telling of a classic.” 

“So what now?” 

“Well.” Professor Way shuffles some things around on his desk before pulling out a notebook. “I’ve come up with some questions that will help us narrow it down.” 

“Okay,” Patrick says again. 

“Question one: are you the king of anything?” 

“No.”

“Question two: have you recently interacted with anything supernatural?” 

“Didn’t we already rule out paranormal stuff?” Patrick interjects. 

Professor Way makes a vague gesture. “Technically, yes. But plenty of classic heroes encounter the supernatural, like Hamlet and Macbeth. Hell, even Ebenezer Scrooge.” 

Patrick frowns. “I don’t think I’m Ebenezer Scrooge.” 

“Just answer the question.” 

“No.” 

They go back and forth for quite awhile. Patrick is not in a Greek play, a Shakespearean play, a thriller, a mystery, a sci-fi novel, a fantasy novel, a fairy tale, or a western. He’s probably not the hero of an epic poem, either. 

“Last question: any dreams?” 

Patrick bites his lip. “I was a drummer in high school, but I can’t really do that at home without pissing off my neighbors. I guess I’d say get better at guitar.”

Professor Way nods. “Alright. All that’s left is to figure out whether you’re in a comedy or a tragedy. End of a tragedy, you die, end of a comedy, you get married.” 

Patrick was in a good mood. He had completely forgotten his predicament while answering, and laughing at, Professor Way’s questions. “Don’t we already know the answer to that?” Patrick asks suspiciously. “I’ve been told I’m going to die.” 

Professor Way shrugs. “You never know. The ending could surprise you. Have you met anyone new recently?” 

“Just the baker I’m auditing.” 

“Start there. Keep track of things that sound like they point towards a comedy or a tragedy.” 

“Okay.” Patrick nods, standing on shaky legs. “Thank you, Professor Way.” 

Professor Way stands up and claps a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Keep calm, Patrick. Things may not be as bleak as you want to think.” He smiles softly, then sits back down. 

Patrick will keep that in his heart, close to where he’s been playing the author’s statement: _he will be okay._ He’ll need the encouragement to keep going on like normal, after all. That being said, Patrick knows in his gut that however his story ends, it won’t be with Andy Hurley. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Patrick audits Andy Hurley. Patrick hates every second of it, and Mr. Hurley doesn’t make it any easier by purposefully disorganizing his files to screw with Patrick. He’s ready to go home and crash in bed, hopefully listening to more reassuring words from his narrator. Mr. Hurley stops him before he can go, however, and offers him vegan chocolate chip cookies as an apology. It turns out they went to the same college, though Andy dropped out a few years before Patrick entered as a freshman, having decided he would rather run a bakery and cafe than sell his soul to some corporate office. Patrick admits that, sometimes, he wishes he’d done the same. 

“There’s always time to make a change,” Andy tells him. “Your life is in your hands, dude.” 

They’re not enemies, but they’re certainly not lovers. 

The narrator’s voice returns that night, just like Patrick had hoped. It lulls him into another night of peaceful sleep, and maybe, just maybe, Patrick kind of enjoy having some company before he goes to bed. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Professor Way listens to Patrick closely. It’s nice, if Patrick’s honest; most people who aren’t his parents don’t take this much interest in him. It’s strange, too, but not nearly as strange as the idea that someone would write a book about him. Patrick hands him his notepad, and Professor Way skims through it while Patrick sits quietly. 

“Can I ask you something?” Professor Way says suddenly, shifting in his chair and setting down Patrick’s writing. 

Patrick shrugs. “Sure.” 

“Are you tired of it? The voice in your head, that is.” Professor Way stares at him passively, posture relaxed. This isn’t a loaded question, just curiosity. Still, Patrick sweats a little. 

“Not really. I’ve gotten used to him.” That’s an understatement. Aside from the weird physical descriptions that pop up every once in a while— _golden hair, eyes like the sky and the sea all at once, porcelain skin, voice like an angel’s—_ Patrick has grown to like listening to the man’s voice in his head, the input he has on the way Patrick sees the world. Not all of it is bleak, after all; he once described a classic Chicago sunset as something extraordinary people would have coursing through their veins, and Patrick has been thinking about it for days. 

Professor Way hums and hands Patrick his notepad back. “Interesting. Anyway, I have a new hunch. I think the plot of your story is character-driven.” 

“Character driven?” Patrick repeats, leaning forward a bit. 

“Yes. The actions you take drive the story. You stop doing things, the voice stops narrating.” 

Patrick hates to admit he’d be a little sad if the voice went away. He just, you know, doesn’t want to die. “So what do you suggest I do?” 

“Nothing. Go home, take a day off of work, and do absolutely nothing, and see what happens. Your phone rings? Ignore it.” 

“What if it’s my mom?”

“Even if it’s your mom.” 

Patrick calls into work and says he’s feeling under the weather, which isn’t technically a lie. He makes himself dinner, watches TV, and gets ready for bed in preparation for his long day of nothing ahead of him. 

_To say Patrick Stump is a “mama’s boy” would be a disservice. The term has a negative connotation, meaning a spoiled boy or a boy who’s overly dependent on his mother. Neither of these things are true about Patrick._

_He does, however, love Patricia Stump very dearly, and in times of stress, she’s the first one he calls, because her voice makes him feel safer, as every mother’s should._

“You get it,” Patrick says in response to the voice, dialing his mom’s number. She picks up after three rings. “Hey mom,” Patrick whispers. His eyes fill with tears as he realizes he can’t talk about this, even if he wanted to. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he lies. “I just wanted to hear your voice.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I don’t get it,” Ryan says one afternoon. He dragged Pete out of his office and to the shore of Lake Michigan, where they’re now lounging under a tree. Ryan is eating an ice cream cone while Pete sips on an iced coffee. “I mean, I understand wanting to have a fitting ending for Patrick, there’s nothing more frustrating as a reader than an ending that doesn’t make sense, but don’t you think you’re being a little picky? Everything I suggest, you shoot down.” 

“Not everything. I’m here, aren’t I?” Pete says, shoving his sunglasses up his nose. 

Ryan glares at him. “People need to sit in the sun every once in a while, Wentz. We’re basically house plants.” He licks a stripe up his ice cream cone. “I’m not saying you have to use every idea I give you, but you could use some of them as points to jump off from. Hell, we could make a list of all the ways Patrick Stump _doesn’t_ die and go from there.” 

Pete looks across the beach. There’s towels and umbrellas set up every few feet, and lots of children are playing in the lake’s water. There’s a group of teenagers playing frisbee. Closer to the shore is a father building a sand castle with his daughter, a sight that warms Pete’s heart.

“I think you’re being too hard on yourself,” Ryan continues. “This is still your first draft, remember? Why stress over making the ending perfect right now?” 

Why? Because Pete has sunk too much into making Patrick Stump. Pete’s given Patrick Stump real estate in his heart, expensive land in the heart of downtown that no one else, real or imaginary, deserves. He has created the perfect man, he knows him better than himself, and he will never get to shake his hand or see his eyes light up when he smiles. He will never see Patrick Stump play guitar or sing, no matter how much he wants to. Patrick Stump is too good to be real, and his death has to reflect that. 

Patrick will die after only a few weeks of truly living his life. The least Pete can do is make sure it means something. 

Pete takes another sip of his drink and shrugs. “It just doesn’t feel right.” He doesn’t elaborate. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here’s the thing: Patrick did nothing. Really, he did. His phone rang, he ignored it. He got tired of what was on TV, he took a nap without moving from his post on the couch. He had to piss, he pissed in a bottle. 

It all came to a halt when a wrecking ball smashed through his wall. 

The demolition crew apologized profusely, having realized they were wrecking the wrong apartment, and promised to have someone come repair Patrick’s apartment. Patrick didn’t even know what to say to them; if doing nothing gets him _this,_ and him actively participating in life results in his death, what the hell is he supposed to do? 

“Well shit, man,” Professor Way says when Patrick tells him this. His face is stricken, and he shakes his a head a little before asking, “Do you have somewhere to stay?” 

“Yeah.” Patrick sighs, running a hand through his hair. “My friend Joe is letting me crash in his guest room.” 

“That’s. That’s good.” Professor Way’s voice sounds distant now, even though they’re only standing a few feet apart. “Wouldn’t want you to be out on the streets.” 

They’re both silent for a moment. The only sound in the room is Professor Way’s TV playing some interview. 

“Patrick,” Professor Way starts. He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” 

“Why? It’s not your fault. You didn’t narrate my life, or call a demolition crew to my apartment.” 

“But I was the person who told you to do nothing. I think that might have been some bad advice. Or, at least, misguided.” 

Patrick shrugs. 

Professor Way pauses before continuing. “I don’t think you control the story anymore.” 

Patrick knows what he means by that. He swallows the lump forming in his throat. “So, um, what do I do?” 

Professor Way thinks. “You still don’t know how long you have?” Patrick shakes his head. “Then make the best of what time you have left.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Patrick stands in Joe’s guest bathroom, wearing black latex gloves and holding a plastic bowl full of hair bleach. Patrick’s always been a little curious about what he would look like with platinum-blond hair, and now seems like a good time as any to find out. 

To sum up what Patrick has done since Professor Way told him to make use of his remaining time: 

One, Patrick bought a guitar. It’s a well-loved second hand acoustic he found at a music store down the block from his office building. He wasn’t bad at it the first time he tried to learn, and he doesn’t see the harm in trying again. The first song he’s learning is an old Bowie song he’s loved since he was a kid. It’s coming along pretty well, but it’s not perfect yet. 

Two, Patrick went back to Andy’s bakery and asked about signing up to perform at open mic night. He was sweating the entire time just thinking about performing in front of people that weren’t his family or close friends, but Andy gave him a reassuring smile and told him not to worry too much. “Most of the audience are either pretentious art students that just like the experience or people who use it as an excuse to get out more. No one’s a critic here.” So Patrick signed up to go towards the end of the night, and promptly left to hyperventilate in private. 

Three, Patrick is bleaching his hair. 

What’s the criteria for a mid-life crisis again? Oh yeah, it’s supposed to be in the _middle_ of his life, not right before the end of it. 

The narrator takes that as his cue to start talking again. 

_Patrick stares at himself in the mirror, taking one last look at his dirty blond hair. This is the end of an era, he realizes. He picks up the brush on the sink counter, black gloves shining in the dull light of the bathroom. His hand quivers as he dips the brush in the bleach. He can only imagine what would happen if the chemical bled onto his porcelain skin._

“It’s just bleach, calm down,” Patrick says aloud, despite his mind racing with worries about chemical burns. 

_Patrick lifts the brush to his head, carefully applying the mixture to the first section of his hair. There’s no turning back now. He brushes his hair with caution, making sure not to get too much bleach on the skin of his scalp. He coats the front, sides, top, and as much of the back of his head as he can before giving in and asking Joe to come help him. Patrick spends the next twenty minutes on his phone, periodically checking how much his hair is lightening. He rinses out the bleach, leaving his gloves on just in case._

_Once again, Patrick stares at himself in the mirror. His hair has successfully been bleached; Patrick Stump is now a platinum-blond. It’s sleek, stylish, and most of all sexy. Patrick looks even more like the front page of Vogue magazine. It’s a gorgeous look for him, and the fact that he did it himself only makes him feel better._

_Patrick Stump stares at himself in the mirror and smiles._

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Patrick meets with Professor Way again on a Monday morning before he has to go to work. He tells Professor Way everything that’s happened since he last saw him, including his quest to learn guitar and his adventures in bleaching his own hair. 

“It looks good,” Professor Way says. “Very glamourous.”

Patrick thinks of the author’s voice saying the same thing, and he can’t help but agree. 

“So.” Professor Way claps his hands. “Since we still don’t know whether you’re in a comedy or a tragedy, I’ve come up with a list of authors that could be writing your story based on plot and writing style. Almost all of them are male, but I included a few female authors that have deeper voices, just in case.” Professor Way shuffles around the papers in front of him, and Patrick hovers by the door of his office. Patrick bites the inside of his cheek. On the Professor’s TV an interview plays, featuring a blonde reporter with a squeaky voice and a man with dark hair and tattooed arms. 

_“Tell us about your new book.”_

_“Well, it’s about an IRS agent auditing a bakery—”_

Patrick doesn’t even process the words; if he were they would’ve been a dead giveaway. No, Patrick hears the _voice,_ warm and slightly gravelly, and his heart stops. He stares at the screen in wonder, eyes darting from the man’s jawline to his eyebrows to his shoulders to his cheeks. 

“Patrick?” 

“That’s him,” Patrick forces out. He crosses the room in two steps and points at the TV. “That’s the author.”

Professor Way looks at the screen and frowns. “Pete Wentz?” 

“Is that his name?” Patrick hasn’t taken his eyes off the screen. The man smiles gently and tells the interviewer, _“Please, call me Pete,_ ” and Patrick’s heart warms, even if he feels like he might shake out of his skin. The man seems friendly, paying attention to the interviewer’s questions and answering them in full, rambling and tripping over his words a bit as he does. His voice is different when speaking, which shouldn’t surprise Patrick, but his tone is lighter, less refined. Patrick finds himself leaning down to get eye-level with the TV. 

“That interview is years old. Everyone thought he’d abandoned the novel he was talking about.” 

“Obviously he didn’t,” Patrick murmurs, watching the way the corners of Pete’s mouth curl upwards when he says Patrick’s name. 

_“Patrick is this golden thing, you know? And he doesn’t see it, but you can see it in everything he does, even when he’s being kind of a jerk.”_

Professor Way watches him carefully. Then, he says quietly, “Pete Wentz only writes tragedies, Patrick.” 

Patrick tears his eyes away from the screen. “What?” 

“His stories have some comedic elements, but they always end in tragedy. Except for his debut novel, technically, because his protagonist didn’t die— just his love interest.” 

_God damn it,_ Patrick thinks. _Fuck._

“I should’ve thought of him sooner,” Professor Way is saying. “His writing style changed after his first novel, when he shifted from personal narratives to completely fictional ones.” He glances at Patrick. “Or, mostly fictional.” 

Patrick thinks, eyes drifting back to the TV. “Where can I find him?” 

“No one knows. I can give you his P.O. box, but anything you write him might not get there in time, assuming he even reads the mail he gets. He’s never responded to anything I’ve sent.” Professor Way nods at the TV. “Incredible writer, though. He does his characters justice.” 

“He loves me.” Patrick straightens up, adjusts his jacket and tugs down his sleeves. “Surely, there’s something I can do.” He turns to Professor Way. 

Professor Way sighs. “There’s nothing saying you can’t try.” His answer is too diplomatic for Patrick’s taste; it’s not a vote of confidence. Professor Way smiles sadly. 

Patrick feels lightheaded when he leaves Professor Way’s office. He finally knows whose voice has been echoing in his head, and now he has no idea what to do with that knowledge. He has no reliable way to contact Pete Wentz, no way to stop him from writing his novel, no way to prevent his own death. To top it all off, he still has to work today, so he has to live with the knowledge that his life is coming to end _and_ be a functional member of society when all he wants to do is go back to Joe’s apartment and curl up in the guest bed. 

Fuck.

If Patrick makes a pit-stop in a public restroom to cry out some of his frustration, well. That’s between him and Pete’s narration. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It comes to Pete the way all inspiration does: suddenly, randomly, devastatingly clear. 

He’s buying a fresh pack of pens and a king size Reece’s. The TV above the 7-11 cash register is set on a news station, a story about a college student getting mugged on his way out of a club in a rougher part of downtown. The kid’s alive and in the hospital. 

The cashier gives Pete his change. Pete pockets his wares and walks out onto the street, humming a song from Patrick’s character playlist. He glances up when he passes an alley and sees a homeless man tucked against the corner of a building, fast asleep with a tin can next to him. Pete almost walks by, but decides to stop and drop a five dollar bill into the can.

_Being a good Samaritan,_ Pete thinks with a little smile. _It’s what Patrick Stump would do._

And just like that, everything slots into place. 

Pete stops in his tracks, stomach twisting painfully; he knows how to kill Patrick Stump. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Patrick’s phone dies on the way home from work, and it’s the final straw. 

He sits down and takes a few deep breaths and tries very hard not to completely lose his shit on public transport, but inside he’s crying and sobbing hysterically because his phone just died and _he will too._

He’s been on edge for so long now, and the only end in sight makes Patrick’s throat close up. 

Patrick _knows,_ okay? He knows his life isn’t anything extraordinary. He’s not important. The only people that will miss him are his family, and maybe Joe, but whose family wouldn’t miss them? That doesn’t make him special. He’s an IRS agent, not an activist or a teacher or any other kind of professional that makes an impact that matters. The world will keep turning without him, and he knows it. 

The knowledge doesn’t make the thought of dying any less unpalatable. 

Patrick is keeping his eyes shut and humming quietly to himself and trying to not look like a man having a mental breakdown on public transport. He’s seen worse on the L, sure, but he doesn’t want to be remembered in some stranger’s mind for crying on the train. He doesn’t want their pity or their judgment. It almost works— his breathing starts to even out again, and he thinks he might be able to hold himself together until he gets home. _You’re okay. You can cry when you’re in the shower,_ he tells himself, opening his eyes and looking out the window at the city skyline.

Someone’s cellphone rings at an obnoxious volume. Patrick flinches at the sudden interruption of his semi-self assuring thoughts. 

The man the phone belongs to is sitting two seats away from Patrick. “Ross,” he says when he answers the call. 

He’s not talking that loudly. Patrick finds himself glaring anyway. Strong annoyance is much easier to deal with than soul-crushing angst. What kind of person wears a scarf like _that?_

“You did?” the man asks. “That’s great news! I’ll let the publishers know.” A pause. “Well, at least you’re off the hook. You should celebrate.”

Patrick goes back to staring out the window. He doesn’t want to listen to someone else’s fortune. 

“Okay, whatever you say. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Wentz.” 

Patrick jolts in his seat. His eyes widen and his jaw drops open. “Excuse me,” he blurts. 

The man is slipping his phone back into his pocket. He looks at Patrick with the kind of cautious interest Patrick reserves for strange men and sick-looking children rubbing their hands on everything within reach. “Yes?” he prompts. 

“Were you just on the phone with Pete Wentz?” Patrick asks, which is a stupid question, how common is the last name Wentz?

The man slowly gives him a once over. “So what if I was?” 

Patrick swallows. “I’m Patrick Stump,” he says quietly, and luckily that’s all he has to say, because the man’s eyes widen and he says, “Oh fuck.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pete stares out the window of his office because he can’t bare to look at Ryan. He’s not an expert at reading people, but one glance will tell him this isn’t a prank. He knows, somehow, that it’s not, but he’d like to hold onto hope. 

“Patrick Stump,” Pete says, breaking the silence that had fallen over his office. 

“Yes.” 

“You met him on the train?” 

“He overheard me talking to you.” 

Pete closes his eyes, forehead connecting with the window. The cool glass feels like heaven against his burning skin. He might be developing a fever. “There’s no way,” Pete says quietly. 

Ryan’s hand grips Pete’s shoulder. “I asked him everything I could think of, Pete. He’s an IRS agent, he’s from Evanston, he’s auditing a baker named Andy Hurley. He recently bleached his hair and bought a guitar.” He pauses. “I don’t know how it’s possible, but it’s him.” 

Pete opens one eye. “And he’s on his way?”

Ryan nods. 

“Oh god.” Pete walks over to his desk and collapses into his chair. “What am I supposed to say to him?” Pete’s heart is pounding. If he held up his hands, he knows they’d be shaking. 

There’s a knock on the door. Pete jumps. Ryan offers him an encouraging smile, then walks to the foyer. Pete closes his eyes, tries counting his breaths. He can hear Ryan talking softly, then footsteps.

“Hi?” 

Pete opens his eyes. The sight knocks the breath out of him. 

Pete rises from his chair and stands in front of his desk. He takes in the cardigan, the bleached-blond hair, the hands, the round cheeks, the soft, pink, full lips, the sheer Beauty of the man in front of him. “Hi,” Pete squeaks. This is a dream, it has to be, not even Pete’s imagination could create someone so beautiful. 

But Patrick smiles nervously, a half-smile Pete’s imagined and tried to describe so many times, and says “I’m Patrick Stump,” in that rich, calming voice and Pete knows his dreams have never been so kind. 

Pete meets his eyes and whispers, “I know.” 

Patrick’s smile softens, and Pete is overwhelmed by the need to Touch, to make sure Patrick won’t evaporate if he does. If Patrick disappears at the touch of a hand, Pete will be heartbroken, he knows, but also Incredibly Relieved, because then Patrick Stump will not really die. He stumbles forward and pulls Patrick into a hug without thinking, and he almost whimpers when Patrick Hugs Him Back. He’s soft and warm and he fits against Pete perfectly and— 

Pete doesn’t want to let him go. Ever. 

He does though, because he knows Patrick inside and out, but he’s a stranger to Patrick, and the situation is weird enough as it is. Pete doesn’t need to add his overbearing friendliness to the ordeal. 

Patrick smiles again when Pete takes a step back. Pete tries to return it. He clears his throat and holds out his hand. “I’m Pete. Pete Wentz.” 

Patrick takes his hand. He has a firm handshake, just like Pete knew he would. “Nice to meet you.” 

Pete has always hated small talk. Usually he’d rather get to grit of the conversation, get the serious stuff out in the open, instead of putting off the inevitable by asking people how they are only to hear them say, “Fine, how are you?” It might sound insensitive, but Pete never understood the point in asking when people rarely answer with the truth. He finds himself asking Patrick anyway. He expects Patrick to lie. 

His heart swells and breaks at the same time when Patrick looks at his shoes and says honestly, “Kind of shitty.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Pete whispers. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

“Do you know how this happened?” Patrick asks, looking out the window. He’s pointedly not looking at Pete, and Pete knows he has no right to be hurt by it, but he can’t help it. 

Pete shakes his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. “No. I have no idea. Although I did buy my typewriter from a pretty sketchy yard sale, so it might be cursed.” 

Patrick lets out a short, charming laugh. Pete feels better instantly. “You better call the Ghostbusters, then.” 

Pete grins. Then, he clears his throat. “Didn’t you think you were crazy?” 

Patrick nods. “At first, yeah.”

“So how’d you figure out you’re in a novel?” 

“You said ‘little did he know.’ It’s third person omniscient.” 

“Oh,” Pete says. “That makes sense.” 

Patrick shrugged. “A friend figured that one out, not me.” He pauses, looks at Pete like he’s studying him. “Are you going to finish it?” 

Pete rubs the back of his neck. “Um.” 

“Don’t tell me you’ve finished it,” Patrick says lowly, stepping closer. 

“No! No, it’s not done yet, I got stuck on the ending for so long.” Pete takes a deep breath, then finds himself saying, “There’s only an outline.” 

“An outline,” Patrick repeats. 

Pete nods, heart starting to race again. 

“You wrote an outline of my death?” 

“I— I didn’t know…” Pete falters, feeling weak. 

Patrick starts off on a hysteric rant, and Pete completely understands why, but he doesn’t hear a word of it. He can’t breathe. He closes his eyes and tries to think soothing thoughts, of his mom and his siblings and his favorite songs, but his throat is tightening and he knows he’s about to have a full-blown panic attack. He sits down on his desk, puts a hand over his eyes and tries to ignore the embarrassment that always follows the panic when he’s in public. He forces himself to exhale, shuddering through it, then inhales just as shakily. 

There’s a hand on his shoulder and a hand on his knee. “Hey, it’s okay, take a deep breath,” Patrick instructs, sounding panicked himself. Pete tries, and it’s just as shaky as the last one. “There you go, another one.” 

Patrick talks Pete down in a way no one has been able to in years. The last person to talk him down from a panic attack was his mom, and that hasn’t happened since he still lived at home. Everyone else since then had done their best, but ultimately couldn’t do anything (not that Pete didn’t appreciate them trying). Patrick’s voice is soft and patient, soothing to Pete’s very core. Pete almost wants to cry with gratefulness. 

Pete’s breathing evens out again. His hand falls from his face. Patrick is watching him carefully, brow furrowed and mouth set in a concerned frown. It’s incredibly endearing. 

“Are you okay?” Patrick asks softly. He gives Pete’s shoulder a brief squeeze. 

Pete takes another deep breath. He really hopes he’s not visibly panicked anymore. “I think so.” He swallows, and Patrick gives him a small smile. “Thank you.” 

“Of course. I didn’t mean to freak you out.” The frown returns to Patrick’s face, and Pete can’t bear it. 

“What if you let him read it?” Pete tears his gaze away from Patrick’s face to see Ryan standing in the doorway. Another wave of embarrassment crashes over him when he wonders how long Ryan’s been standing there. 

Pete looks at Patrick. “Do you want to read it?” Pete asks. 

Patrick lets out a slow breath. “Yeah. Sure.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Patrick can’t read it. He gives the manuscript to Professor Way first and begs him to read it and tell him what to do. Then, he goes home, gets no sleep, and waits for Professor Way to call. He gets a text at eight the next morning after two days, asking him to come to Professor Way’s office later that morning. 

Patrick…Patrick doesn’t know how he feels. He’s been mulling his situation over all night. What did he come up with? Jack shit. He’s relying on the idea that Professor Way will save him, and the more he thinks about it, the more dangerous that is. Shouldn’t he be the one to take charge here? It’s _his_ life. What if Professor Way can’t provide him with any solutions? What’s he going to do then? Grovel at Pete’s feet and beg to be spared? 

He’s aware that he looks like shit. He slept in his clothes, his hair is sticking up in all directions, and he hasn’t showered. Professor Way doesn’t say anything about it. Patrick is extremely grateful. 

“Patrick.” Professor Way uses the kind of tone he’s heard his siblings use when they have to break bad news to their kids. “How are you?” 

Patrick rubs his eyes. “Tired.” 

Professor Way nods. If he was up all night reading the novel, it doesn’t show. His hair is artfully tussled and his suit is wrinkle-free. “Have a seat,” he says. 

Patrick sits down across from Professor Way. It’s still early enough that the sunlight is soft and soothing, and Way’s office is nice and cool. It’s quiet too. A wave of calm comes over Patrick as he relaxes into the cushions of the seat. He looks at Professor Way, who gives him a small, but sad, smile. Patrick exhales softly and asks, “What do I do?” 

Professor Way sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “It’s the perfect novel, Patrick. It’s… it’s his masterpiece. In my opinion, it’s the greatest work of fiction in the twenty first century.”

Patrick’s stomach twists. “What are you saying?” 

“It’s no good if you don’t die.” 

Patrick’s breath hitches. He leans forward in his chair and buries his face in his hands. 

“I’m sorry, Patrick,” Professor Way continues softly. “I’ve read it three times, and there’s no way to get another outcome.” 

Patrick sniffs. “You’re positive?” 

There’s a moment of silence as Professor Way stands from his seat and comes closer to Patrick. He puts a hand on Patrick shoulder, causing him to look up. A small smile sits on Professor Way’s face. “It’s not a bad ending, Patrick.” Patrick scowls, ready to start yelling and crying that any ending is a bad ending, when Professor Way starts speaking again. “It’s noble, and symbolic, and you don’t die in an excruciating amount of pain. It’s everything anyone could ask for in death.” 

Patrick’s rage drains out of him. “But I’m not ready,” he says, voice cracking. 

“No one’s ready for death, Patrick,” Professor Way says. He gives Patrick a gentle smile, then grabs the manuscript off his desk. “I would give it a read, if I were you,” he adds. 

Patrick leaves Professor Way’s office on shaky legs. He wants to cry, but the tears won’t come, and he’s too drained to let fiery rage push him forward. He wants to crawl into bed and take a week long nap; maybe then the dust will have settled, and he can go back to shuffling through existence. An unfulfilled life is still a life worth living— right? 

Patrick doesn’t remember descending the steps to the underground portion of the El, or scanning his card to get to the tracks, but the next thing he knows a train is pulling to a stop and he’s getting on. He sits down, manuscript carefully balanced in his lap. He frowns at it, fingering the edge of the brown paper cover. He doesn’t think he wants to read it. He opens it anyway, staring down at the first page, at Pete Wentz’s name beneath the title in Times New Roman, all uppercase. To think that the quality of a stack of paper hinges on whether Patrick lives or dies…it’s insane. Patrick flips to the outline of his death scene and glances at it, taking in the sight of it but not processing any words. It’s written in shaky, chicken-scratch handwriting, and seeing it sends a wave of calm over Patrick. 

Pete’s handwriting makes it seem a little less monstrous, much more human. 

Pete put years of effort into crafting the novel Patrick is currently holding in his lap. Maybe half of that time was spent fighting a bad case of writer’s block, but that doesn’t change the fact that Pete took hours out of his day to hand pick every word and sentence and paragraph that ultimately comes together to tell the story of Patrick’s life. He can’t ignore that, no matter how much he tells himself he would rather continue to be stuck in his cubicle day after day than face death. 

Pete’s heart and soul, in some form, is laid bare in Patrick’s lap. The least Patrick can do is take a look. 

He turns the page. He starts reading. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Patrick Stump gets a standing ovation at open mic night. He goes outside to hail a cab home when he hears a young woman screaming for help. When he goes into the alleyway beside the cafe to see what’s wrong, he sees a masked man holding a gun and a brunette cowering in fear. 

Patrick tries to intervene and is shot in the chest. 

The man flees, the woman calls the paramedics. 

They don’t get there in time. 

Patrick Stump bleeds out in a Chicago alleyway, droplets of blood speckling his pale skin. 

Patrick is holding back tears on the L while reading that the young woman reconnects with her mother, who she hasn’t spoken to in two years, after her near-death experience. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Patrick steps off the L, manuscript carefully re-wrapped in his hands. The sound of his footsteps on the stairs is much too loud for the quiet street. He adjusts the strap of his backpack and looks up and down the street, quietly hoping he isn’t too late. 

About a block away, Pete Wentz steps out of his office building and locks the door. 

“Pete!” Patrick yells, breaking into a jog. 

Pete looks up, alarmed for a moment, but quick to relax. He shoves his keys into his pocket, walks down the steps of his office building, and stops on the sidewalk. Patrick skids to a halt in front of him. Pete is half-hidden in shadow, half bronze in the light of the streetlamp. His eyes are dark and guarded. 

Pete greets him with a small nod. “Patrick.” His tone isn’t unfriendly. 

“I’m glad I caught you,” Patrick says between breaths. Pete’s face softens, but he doesn’t say anything. Patrick takes a deep breath and holds out the manuscript. “I finished it.” 

Pete glances at the stack of paper like it’s a thing from his nightmares. “And?” he asks quietly. 

Patrick read the entire thing and was left as a pile of raw nerves in his seat. All he could think of as he sat there, staring blankly out the window, was how Pete had looked only a day ago. In awe, when he first laid eyes on Patrick, having never expected a character from his novel to be standing in front of him. Panicked, when confronted with the fact that he was going to kill Patrick, that Patrick didn’t want to be killed. Grateful, so fucking grateful, when Patrick talked him down from his panic attack, just like Pete had unknowingly done weeks before. Scared and sad and apprehensive, when Patrick said he wanted to read the novel. 

Patrick read the entire thing, and he doesn’t regret it. He isn’t afraid. 

Patrick closes his eyes and accepts it. “It’s a masterpiece, Pete.”

Patrick opens his eyes. Pete’s eyes are wide, and his mouth is hanging open the slightest bit. “You. What?” 

“It’s perfect,” Patrick starts. “But it’s not perfect if I don’t die.” Pete starts to shake his head. “I want you to finish it,” Patrick says before Pete can open his mouth. “I want you to finish it,” he repeats, quieter. 

Pete stares at him, and Patrick feels like he’s under a microscope. Pete swallows. “Are you sure?” 

Patrick nods. 

Pete lets out a shaky breath and takes the manuscript. Their fingertips brush, and Patrick thinks he feels sparks. “Okay. I…okay.” 

“At least it’s a noble death,” Patrick says with a small smile. “I always worried that one day I’d pass out at my cubicle and that would be it.” 

Pete laughs. Patrick can tell it’s forced. Patrick can’t think of a way to make it better. 

“Well, good night, Pete,” Patrick all but whispers. He feels awful, knowing what Pete’s going to do, but there’s a certain freedom mixed in with it— the last few days have been his own, and at least he won’t be scared of the unknown when he dies. He gives Pete one last smile, then turns, ready to spend his night eating ice cream and watching his favorite movies one last time. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pete cries. 

He got home an hour ago after a numb ride on the El, trying to ignore the dead weight of the manuscript in his hands. He swore his fingertips were tingling where his hands brushed Patrick’s. More than once he considered pulling the emergency stop line and tossing the pages out of the first door he could pry open. 

As soon as the door to his apartment shut, he threw the damned thing across the room. 

He was just present enough to remember that alcohol and hysteria never mix well. 

He slid down his front door, pulled his knees to his chest, and let a shaky exhale escape him. Patrick’s eyes, almost grey in that streetlight, came to mind, sad but so, so honest when he told Pete he liked the book. 

He sobs into his empty apartment until he can’t force out anymore tears. He falls quiet, sniffling into his own arms, and holds onto the image of Patrick’s sweet smile when he first laid eyes on Pete. He knows, he _knows,_ that Patrick has accepted his death, he flat out told Pete that he was okay with the completion of the novel. But now, with no one but himself— and maybe god, that tricky bastard— as a witness, it feels _wrong._ Nothing in his life has ever truly felt wrong, not even when he wrote a novel about his ex-girlfriend featuring his own suicide attempts in a xanax and prozac-induced haze that his mom gently chastised him for. 

He’d finally figured it out, and now he can’t do it. 

He can’t kill Patrick Stump. 

Pete would probably drive himself off the nearest bridge, knowing the completion date would coincide with the one on Patrick’s death certificate.

Pete lifts his head from his arms and takes a few deep breaths. He can still fix this, right? It’s an outline, nothing more. Nothing’s been cemented. He doesn’t know what to do now, how to revise his novel, if he even decides to revise it, but he can figure it out. He glares at the pile of murdered trees lying next to his favorite chair and resolves that no, his novel is not ending that way. Patrick Stump’s life is not ending that way. 

Pete wipes his cheeks to find they’ve gone dry. He goes to the bathroom and splashes his face with cold water. He looks at himself in the mirror and thinks, _What a mess._

_Should I tell Patrick?_

Yeah, he should tell Patrick tonight isn’t his last night on Earth. 

Pete’s stomach twists painfully when he looks at his typewriter, but he has to jot down a few things, to make sure reality works in his favor. 

_The Trohman residence was completely empty that night. Joe had left for a foosball tournament at local dive bar, despite his lack of skill in the sport, leaving Patrick alone to practice his guitar in the sparsely decorated guest room. His pale, nimble fingers moved expertly across each fret and each string; he would have left anyone with the impression that he had been playing all his life. That was, of course, the impression the crowd would get the following night, when Patrick Stump took the stage alone for the first time in his brief, but quaint, life._ ****

Pete stops there. 

He skims the paragraph he wrote, then riffles through the rest of the novel to find Joe Trohman’s address. He pulls up directions on his phone. It’s thirty minutes walking, but he doesn’t have a car and he’s not sure how much quicker public transportation will be when he thinks about multiple stops. Patrick deserves to know, and the sooner the better, right? 

So Pete convinces himself that it’ll only take fifteen minutes if he runs. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Patrick opens the door. 

“I can’t do it,” Pete says, panting. “I can’t kill you.” 

“Oh,” is all Patrick can find in himself to say. 

The only sound for the next moment is Pete’s labored breathing. His face is flushed, eyes wide as he stares at Patrick’s face, searching for something. His hands hang at his sides, clenching and unclenching into fists. 

“Did you run here?” Patrick asks, feeling out of his depth. 

Pete nods.

Patrick shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Do you want to come in?” he asks softly. 

Pete nods, lets out a slow breath, and shoves his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. “If it’s not too much trouble.” 

Patrick tries to be a good host and doesn’t think too hard about how Pete knew this address. He knows there’s a bag of coffee on top of Joe’s fridge, but he tells Pete he only has decaffeinated tea; based on the way he looks, caffeine is the last thing he needs. Pete sits as still as statue on Joe’s couch, staring off as if he were in a trance, only snapping out of it at the sound of Patrick setting the mug down on the coffee table. Pete looks at him and smiles briefly, then grabs the mug and brings it close to his chest. Another moment passes before he takes a sip. Patrick sits on the opposite end of the couch and waits for Pete to speak. 

“Thank you,” Pete says, relaxing into the couch and resting his mug on his knee, hands still curled around it. 

“No problem.” 

Pete looks at the floor. “Don’t you want to know why?” 

Patrick shrugs. “Does it matter?” 

Pete stares at him for a moment. “The point of writing it that way was so the character’s performance at the end wouldn’t be a last hurrah. The character is supposed to walk into his death unknowingly, and now… it just wouldn’t be right. He wasn’t supposed to be a martyr. I can’t kill him knowing that he could’ve stopped it, but walked into it anyway.”

Patrick swallows. “The reader wouldn’t know the difference.” 

“I would.” Pete’s eyes are golden fire, burning into Patrick and heating him from his toes to his scalp. 

Patrick clears his throat. “So what are you going to do instead?” 

Pete takes another sip of his tea. “Scrap it.” 

“You’re going to scrap my death?” 

Pete shakes his head. “The whole novel.”

Patrick’s eyes widen. “What?” 

“I’m going to scrap the whole novel.” Pete bites his lip, then continues. “This was going to be my last one, anyway. One last bestseller before I faded away from the spotlight. So I figure, why not retire early?” He smiles a little, shrugging like it’s no big deal. 

“But.” Patrick pauses. "Aren’t you on a contract or something?” 

“I’ll get a lawyer to help me out of it, if I have to. It’s not like I’m withholding a finished work. Only you, me, and Ryan know there’s an outline.” 

“And a friend of mine, an English professor,” Patrick adds quietly. 

Pete hums. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll figure it out.”

“Pete.” Patrick takes a breath and shakes his head. “I’m not worth that.” 

Pete considers Patrick’s words and frowns. “But you are,” he says finally. Pete takes a long sip of his tea, then sets his mug down on the coffee table. He turns until he’s fully facing Patrick, leg bent underneath him. He lays his arm across the back of the couch, leaving his tattoos on full display. If Patrick leaned forward enough, Pete’s fingertips would brush his shoulder. He gives Patrick a small, lovely smile. “You’re my favorite protagonist, Patrick. I wasn’t ready to give you up while writing, and I’m not ready now,” he says softly, as if Patrick doesn’t internally combust hearing those words. 

“I’m just an IRS agent,” Patrick squeaks out. 

Pete makes a sound like he’s been wounded. “You’re much more than an IRS agent, Patrick.”

Patrick has heard Pete say his name countless time in narration, to the point where Patrick almost got sick of it, in the beginning. But now, in Joe’s living room, Pete says it so gently, so _intimately_ , that Patrick almost shivers. Pete’s back to watching him, eyes flicking from point to point on Patrick’s face. It’s intimidating, how intense it is. His face is carefully blank; Patrick thinks he’d be extraordinary at poker. It’s all overwhelming him in a quiet way, like being underwater and feeling your chest start to ache when you can’t hold your breath any longer. 

“Hey,” Pete says suddenly, shyly. “So, I don’t know if you noticed, but I didn’t specify what your first song was, on guitar. Part of it was that I thought it would be kind of cool to leave it up to the reader to guess, but I also didn’t want to pigeon-hole you.” 

“Okay,” Patrick says. 

Pete stares at him, eyes wide and hopeful. 

“Wait, are you asking me to play for you?” 

Pete grins sheepishly. “Yes.” The grin falls from his face. “But if you don’t want to, that’s totally fine. I understand.” He curls into himself, away from Patrick. He picks up his tea and takes a quiet sip. He looks ashamed of himself, like a kicked puppy, and fuck, Patrick can’t stand the way his heart twists at the sight. 

He sighs. “I’ll be right back.” 

Patrick gets his guitar. 

Pete perks up as soon as Patrick sits down and starts tuning. 

“Do you play?” Patrick asks, trying to calm his own nerves, and maybe distract Pete so he won’t stare at Patrick so intensely. 

“I play bass, but I’m not very good. Writing is my main thing.” 

“Novels only?” This one string is being a bastard. 

“That’s all I have published, but I write a lot of poetry too.” 

Patrick nods. He can’t think of anything else to say to put this off, so he starts strumming, keeping his eyes trained on his fingers and the guitar. The intro is long enough that he can steady his breathing before he has to sing. He closes his eyes and braces himself.

_“Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth_

_You pull on your finger, then another finger, then cigarette_

_The wall-to-wall is calling, it lingers, then you forget_

_Oh, you’re a rock ’n’ roll suicide”_

Patrick’s voice trembles the whole time. He keeps his eyes shut, not wanting to face Pete’s reaction. It’s ridiculous if he thinks about it: Pete _knows_ he’s an amateur at guitar, he _knows_ Patrick isn’t a great singer— he wrote a fucking _novel_ about him, for Christ’s sake. But he knows the words by heart, has since he was a kid, so it’s not too hard to let them roll off his tongue. It’s not Bowie’s voice, but no one has Bowie’s voice. 

The last chord rings out. Patrick can feel Pete looking at him. Patrick opens his eyes, but stares at his hands, still poised on the strings. 

“It’s not perfect, obviously, but you already know how long I’ve been playing, so.” Patrick shrugs. 

“Patrick?” Pete says, so soft that Patrick’s heart twists in his chest again. Patrick takes a deep breath and looks up. Pete’s eyes are filled with tears. “I think it was perfect,” he says, voice just as quiet as before. 

Patrick stares at him, mouth hanging open. 

Pete laughs. “Sorry.” He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “It’s just that. I couldn’t have picked a more perfect song if I’d scoured the internet for weeks.” He swallows, then looks at Patrick again. “It’s perfect for you.” 

Patrick doesn’t know what to say to that. 

“Your voice is beautiful,” Pete continues. Patrick wants to scoff and roll his eyes. “I mean it,” Pete says. 

Patrick sets down the guitar. 

Pete holds out a hand between them. “Can I?” 

Patrick glances at him. He’s not really sure what Pete’s asking, but it doesn’t matter. He can trust Pete, he thinks. After all, what’s the worst he can do? Kill him? 

Patrick nods. “Go ahead.” 

Pete scoots closer on the couch, then takes one of Patrick’s hands in both of his. He turns it over, palm up, and stares at it. Patrick knows his palms are sweaty as hell, so it’s part embarrassment that causes him to heat up all over when Pete starts tracing the lines of his hand with a gentle fingertip. 

“I can’t believe I was going to kill you,” he says, more to himself than to Patrick. His eyelids fall shut, and his hand closes over Patrick’s. “I’m so sorry.” 

Patrick shifts his hand until he can hold Pete’s. “You didn’t know,” he offers. “I know you weren’t going to out of malice or something.” 

Pete looks up at him. “See what I mean? You’re perfect. You don’t deserve to die.”

“Well,” Patrick starts. “You don’t deserve to beat yourself up over it.” He squeezes Pete’s hand and tries to smile. 

Pete gives him a watery smile, then averts his gaze. He pulls back the hand that’s not holding Patrick’s and covers his eyes. He sniffs and exhales shakily. Patrick squeezes his hand again, and this time Pete squeezes his hand back. Patrick watches him; when Pete lets out another shaky breath and his lip starts to quiver, Patrick _has_ to do something. Patrick tries to pull his hand back, but Pete tightens his grip. 

“C’mere,” Patrick says, tugging on Pete’s hand. Pete’s hand falls from his eyes and he gives Patrick a confused look. He hasn’t shed any tears yet, but Patrick can tell he’s trying hard to keep them in. Patrick moves in closer and wraps an arm around Pete’s shoulders. He pulls Pete in.

Pete doesn’t get the hint at first. He stays rigid, almost touching Patrick but not quite, still holding his hand. Patrick puts his free hand in the middle of Pete’s back and jokes, “What, you’ve never been hugged before?” Just like that, Pete melts into the embrace. He lets go of Patrick’s hand and wraps his arms around Patrick’s middle, laying his head on Patrick’s shoulder. He takes a few shaky breaths before shifting closer, pressing his face into Patrick’s neck. It’s all too natural to smooth down the hair on the back of Pete’s head and hold him tighter. Pete feels warm and small in his arms, like a little kid looking for comfort after waking up from a nightmare. Patrick tucks Pete’s head under his chin and closes his eyes. 

Holding and being held by Pete feels _right._

Pete pulls away. Patrick’s reluctant to let him go, but he does anyway. Pete doesn’t go very far; he doesn’t move away from Patrick’s reach, but moves back enough that he can look Patrick in the eyes. 

After a moment of silence, Pete takes a deep breath, bringing up a hand to hover beside Patrick’s face. “Can I?” he asks again. This time, Patrick nods without hesitation. Pete cups Patrick’s cheek and leans in. Patrick’s eyes flutter shut, and he tilts his head, waiting for the first touch of their lips. 

Pete brushes their lips together in a feather-light kiss. He does it again. And again. Patrick finds himself leaning forward for more and puts a hand on the back of Pete’s neck to pull him in. Pete kisses him for real then, soft and warm and sweet. Pete kisses him like he’s something precious, something fragile and priceless. Patrick’s never liked being treated like he could break at any moment, but Pete’s caution makes him feel safe in a way he hasn’t felt in the past weeks. Pete cups Patrick’s jaw with both hands, then kisses Patrick deeper.

They pull apart. Patrick opens his eyes to find Pete already staring at him, cheeks flushed and mouth hanging open. Patrick darts forward to kiss him again, and Pete melts into him. It’s Pete’s hand on his back, pulling him closer, and his own arms around Pete’s neck, fingers tangling in his dark hair. 

When Patrick gathers the discipline to stop kissing Pete long enough to get a sentence out, he says, “So, as much as I really want to keep making out, I don’t think Joe would like it if he walked in on me and a stranger sucking face on his couch.”

Pete nods, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. “Yeah, okay. It’s getting late anyway. But I can give you my number if you want?”

“Well, all I meant was maybe we shouldn’t make out on Joe’s couch. The guest room however…” Patrick trails off, watching Pete’s eyes light up. He grins, then continues, “I think that’s fair game.” 

Pete nods. “Yeah. I would think so too. That’s how it is at my house.” 

Patrick laughs, grabs Pete’s hand, and leads the way to the guest room, closing the door behind them. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pete regrets not writing a sex scene for Patrick. Only a little, because there wasn’t really a place for it in the grand scheme of his novel, but he thinks Patrick’s moans and shaky gasps deserve to be immortalized forever. Pete kisses a trail down Patrick’s still heaving chest and says as much, earning him a soft hit to the back of the head. 

“If you write about us having sex, I swear to god I will sue you,” Patrick says without even a hint of a threat in his tone. 

Pete hums, continuing his quest down Patrick’s stomach, to the tops of his thighs. 

Patrick lifts his head. “As much as you like to say I’m jailbait, I’m not eighteen. I can’t get it up again right now.” 

“I never said you were jailbait.” 

“You implied it.” 

“Those are two very different things, Trick.” Pete kisses the inside of Patrick’s knee, then shifts until he can lay his head on the soft flesh of Patrick’s hip. “I like it down here. It’s warm and you smell good.” 

Patrick hums. “I’m pretty sure I smell like sex.”

Pete ignores him. He nuzzles Patrick’s skin and takes a deep breath. Patrick’s hand finds its way to Pete’s hair, gently petting and smoothing down the stray curls that had begun to pop out. The only sound in the room is Patrick’s pulse, thrumming in the femoral artery right next to Pete’s ear. It’s a lovely sound. Pete’s very comfortable. He’d really like to not move for the next few hours. He might even get a full night’s sleep. 

Patrick breaks the silence by asking, “This is weird, right?” 

Pete makes a noncommittal sound and doesn’t open his eyes. 

“I mean, you wrote a book about me, and you were going to _kill_ me, and now we’ve had sex. Where do you go from here?” 

Pete sighs and props his chin on his hand. “In my opinion? There’s nowhere to go but up.” 

“But like-" Patrick sits up, hands waving as he talks. “You wrote stuff about me, it happened. But we don’t know why, or how. So who’s to say it’s not just a crazy coincidence?” 

“That would have to be a hell of a coincidence,” Pete points out. 

Patrick goes quiet. Pete waits, watching Patrick’s eyes as he thinks. 

“What if I go to open mic night tomorrow and I still die?” Patrick asks finally. 

Pete’s blood goes cold. He sits up too. “You won’t.” 

“How do you know? What if the outline is all you had to write? Or, what if my fate doesn’t change just because you decide not to put the pen to paper?” 

“Because I’m going with you,” Pete blurts. 

Patrick blinks. “What?” 

Pete looks at the sheets. “I could go with you,” he amends. “I could keep you safe. Maybe if you’re not alone…” he trails off. 

Patrick grabs his hand and squeezes. “If that girl is there, I’m going to save her. I can’t let her die in my place.” His voice is thick and heavy with emotion, but soft. 

Pete glances up at Patrick, only to find he can’t look away. Patrick is so much prettier than he ever could’ve described. His blue eyes are stormy with determination. His sharp, yet soft, jaw is clenched, either with the desire to hold himself back or the need to protect this girl he doesn’t even know. His cheeks are still pink, a lovely contrast to the pale expanse of his neck and shoulders. If he had been alive in the Roman Empire, or the Renaissance, people would be making marble statues of him left and right. 

Pete swallows the lump in his throat. “Maybe no one has to die.” 

They’re both silent after that. Pete can almost see the tension now, could touch the anxiety that’s bubbling up in them both— because they don’t know. They don’t know what will happen. They don’t know who pulls the strings in this puppet show, or how to cut them, if they even can be cut. 

Patrick lets out a heavy sigh and rubs his eyes. The hand that had been holding Pete’s gets pulled away. Pete watches him carefully, and he doesn’t feel like he’s in control when he cups Patrick’s face and pulls him in for a kiss. 

Pete thinks he could get addicted to kissing Patrick. His lips are soft and warm against Pete’s, and Patrick is a master at the balance of give and take, of letting Pete kiss him and kissing Pete in return. It’s pure bliss when Patrick wraps his arms around Pete’s neck and they end up lying down again, Pete half on top of Patrick. When they break apart, their breathing is a little heavier but Pete can tell they’re both calmer. 

“Hey,” Pete whispers. Patrick opens his eyes. He looks dazed and his mouth is red and slick and Pete couldn’t stop staring if he tried. “I can’t predict what’s going to happen tomorrow, or the day after that, or the week after that, but I do know two things: one, I already adore you, more than I did the character I wrote about, and two, I’m not leaving your side tomorrow. Whatever happens, you’re not going through it alone.” 

Patrick takes a deep breath. He stares at Pete’s chest, then touches a fingertip to the top of his sternum and lets it trail down to Pete’s navel. Pete doesn’t bother to fight his shiver. Patrick looks him in the eye. “Promise?” 

Pete nods. “Promise.” 

Pete doesn’t know how long it takes either of them to fall asleep. Hell, he’s not sure if they fell asleep at all. He does know that the morning comes with him and Patrick curled around each other like vines, and Pete wouldn’t disturb their peaceful state if the world was ending. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Patrick slept like shit, but he felt young and giddy sneaking an extra cup of coffee to his room for Pete, and it’s a really nice feeling. He holds on to it the whole morning, through muffled blowjobs and another secret mission to get two bowls of cereal from the kitchen an hour later. It’s a good morning, filled with soft content and Pete’s sleepy smile. 

Patrick can live with the idea that it might be his last morning alive. 

Pete tells him not to think like that when he says it out loud. “Be an optimist, Patrick,” is what he says into Patrick’s neck during a particularly soothing cuddle session post-Lucky Charms. Patrick just sighs and nuzzles the top of his head. 

Now though, it’s hard to be an optimist. His heart is going to beat out of his chest. The day went by way too fast, and now, sitting at a table three feet from the make-shift stage, he might die just counting down the minutes until he has to perform. 

“You’re going to be great, Pete whispers, touching Patrick’s hand gently. 

Pete barely left his side the whole day, only going home to shower and change his clothes. He took Patrick out to dinner, and he didn’t let Patrick pay for it or for the drinks they got afterward. Pete did almost all of the talking, and Patrick didn’t mind one bit. He loved listening, anyway; Pete’s much more animated and less eloquent in real life compared to his narration. He told Patrick his life story, answered every question Patrick had, and Patrick found it was hard to freak out while imagining a young Pete playing soccer with his hair in dreadlocks. He didn’t leave out a single detail, good or bad, and Patrick fell in love with him a little more. 

Patrick tears his eyes away from the stage, where a young man in a beanie is covering “Wonderwall” badly. He glances at the single orange rose on the table, a gift from Pete, given to Patrick and followed up by a kiss on the cheek. Finally, he looks at Pete. Pete has leaned into his space, enough to make the moment feel intimate in the crowded bakery, enough that Patrick can feel a spot of warmth where their sides are brushing. 

“You think so?” Patrick asks, just as quietly. 

Pete smiles, the smallest upturn in the corner of his mouth, and Patrick has the temptation to lean in and kiss it. If he’s feeling the same nerves Patrick is about the rest of the night, he isn’t showing it. “I know so,” Pete declares, taking Patrick’s hand and squeezing. 

Andy is up on the stage now, announcing Patrick’s name. Everyone claps politely, and Pete leans in further, mouth right next to Patrick’s ear, saying, “Knock ‘em dead, Trick.” Patrick rises on shaky feet, guitar in hand, and takes the stage. 

Patrick introduces himself shyly and adjusts his guitar, eyes flicking back to where Pete’s sitting in the front row of tables. He thinks he might have an anxiety attack; his mouth is dry and he knows his hands are shaking. He does the only thing he can think to do and gets his fingers on the frets, then the strings, and starts strumming. Like the night before, he uses the first few measures to steady his breathing. He closes his eyes, hears his own voice echo through the bakery, shaking as much as his hands but still strong, and he opens his eyes again to see Pete. Pete, who’s watching him with eyes the color and warmth of caramelized sugar. The whole room is watching, but it doesn’t feel so scary. Patrick relaxes into the song, feels the stage beneath his feet, and keeps singing. 

Patrick gets a standing ovation when he’s done. 

Patrick stumbles off stage, the last of the nervous adrenaline leaving his body. Pete’s there to catch him when he falls into his seat. Pete gives him a blinding grin. “I told you you’d be incredible.” 

Pete’s hand is warm on the small of Patrick’s back. “Thanks,” Patrick says, a little breathless. 

They sit through the last few performances and order coffees. Pete keeps his hand on Patrick’s back and holds Patrick’s hand the entire time. Halfway through the last performance, Pete starts stroking Patrick’s back with his thumb. Patrick glances at him, expecting to see a flirty grin or longing eyes, but Pete’s gaze is locked on the stage, mouth in a firm line. Now, Patrick can see all the anxiety Pete had been trying to hide right there on the surface. Patrick squeezes his hand and lays his head on Pete’s shoulder. 

Pete tries to buy Patrick another coffee after the last of the applause has died down, saying “Come on, my treat,” with a pained smile. 

Patrick shakes his head and lets go of Pete’s hand. “She needs my help.” Patrick shoulders his guitar and gives Andy his compliments before walking towards the door. Pete’s behind him in an instant, nervous energy radiating off of him. 

The street is almost empty, minus a few men smoking outside a bar across the street. It’s not too cold out, but Patrick shivers when a gust of wind attacks them. Pete is trying to hail a cab, and Patrick doesn’t object. What he does do is wander toward the alley where he’s supposed to spend his final moments. He steps are almost inaudible as he listens for any noise, any scuffle of shoes or cocking of a gun. He pauses before turning the corner, pulse pounding in his ears. _Do it for the girl,_ he thinks. Patrick takes one more deep breath. 

He turns the corner. 

Pete calls out his name as Patrick steps into the alleyway, and Patrick hears quick footsteps, like someone’s running, and then Pete is crashing into him, pushing him aside, then he’s waiting for a scream or a gunshot or some other terrifying sound to signal that _something_ is happening, changing, and he doesn’t have to be in limbo anymore. No such sound comes. 

Patrick peeks over Pete’s shoulder. The alley is empty. 

They’re both breathing heavy when they look at each other. The adrenaline slips away, and for the second time that night Patrick feels a little woozy from the sudden loss. Pete starts laughing, and Patrick can’t help but join in— he’s _alive,_ damn it, after everything he’s still alive. Pete pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, and Patrick doesn’t hesitate to return it; he can feel Pete’s heart pounding in his chest, and Patrick’s heart is responding in kind, and Patrick has never loved having a heart beat more. 

“Holy shit.” Pete’s breath is hot on the side of his neck, tone full of relief. “Oh my god.” Patrick hugs him tighter, lets his eyes fall shut. 

Pete pulls away, scanning Patrick’s face like he’s worried he’ll forget it. He cups Patrick’s face in his hands. Pete’s thumbs brush gentle lines to Patrick’s cheeks and Patrick melts into the touch. “I know this is happening really fast,” Pete begins. “And I want a chance to go back and do everything right, if you’ll let me, but would it be okay if I kissed you?” 

Patrick doesn’t hesitate to nod. “Yeah, please.” 

Pete grins as he leans in, so his smile is the last thing Patrick sees before he closes his eyes and lets himself be kissed breathless. His arms never left Pete’s waist, and he tugs Pete closer without a second thought. Patrick kisses back with everything he has, he finds himself nudging Pete backwards until he’s pressed against a brick wall hands dropping to Pete’s waist. Pete breaks away from the kiss and bumps his head, letting out a small grunt. 

“Sorry,” Patrick says, but he can’t help smiling. 

“It’s okay.” Pete smiles back, hands trailing down to rest on Patrick’s shoulders. He tilts his head and presses a kiss to the bolt of Patrick’s jaw. 

“We can.” 

Pete lifts his head up. “We can? We can what?” 

“We can do everything right.” Patrick squeezes Pete’s waist, then leans in to give him another kiss. “I want to. I've got the time now, after all.” 

Pete’s grin almost splits his face in half. He pulls Patrick into another hug and holds on tight. “I’m glad you’re here,” Pete whispers. 

Patrick laughs. “Yeah, me too.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel free to leave kudos and comments. :) 
> 
> If you want to come talk to me, find me [on tumblr!](https://setting-in-a-honeymoon.tumblr.com/)


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